


forget all about equality

by rulebreakingmoth



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Smut, mario kart as a method of seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 13:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14695334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rulebreakingmoth/pseuds/rulebreakingmoth
Summary: Monica and Gilfoyle embark on...something.





	forget all about equality

**Author's Note:**

> after six years of not writing or publishing a single work, i'm glad to say the one thing that got me back into the game was Monica telling Gilfoyle to "sit the fuck down."
> 
> title from "Master and Servant" by Depeche Mode because i am wildly unsubtle

“Sit the fuck down.”

That’s how it starts. He can count the number of words he and Monica have shared before now on one hand, but these four more make a difference that’s difficult to explain. 

He’s not typically inclined to do what anyone tells him to, much less someone who wears pastels and probably puts sugar in her coffee, but when Monica barks a “Sit the fuck down,” with one finger in his direction, he obeys.

The obedience is only kind of hard to explain. What’s  _ really  _ hard to explain is the little shiver that it sends down his spine, tingling somewhere low in his stomach as he lowers himself back down at her command.

Huh. 

He tries not to think about it.

\---

At some point in the middle of the night, when they’re a pack and a half of cigarettes in and he’s been plugging away at code for three hours while Monica paces back and forth, it occurs to him that she is attractive.

Yes, obviously she has always been an objectively attractive woman, what with her hair and her makeup and whatever it is that men usually find attractive about women. But now that she’s here, barefoot and sleep-deprived, chain-smoking in an unflattering Pied Piper hoodie, and sitting next to Gilfoyle for seemingly no reason other than to keep him company, it’s the first time that he really notices she is  _ attractive.  _ To _ him. _

“How much longer?” she asks after returning from another trip to the kitchen for room-temperature, watery coffee. It turns out she doesn’t put sugar in hers, or if she does, she’s too tired to care.

“I don’t know,” he says, “but I bet it would be done a lot faster if you’d stop asking me that.” 

She glares, pulling sharply on a piece of his hair as retaliation. Something catches in his throat. He swallows it down.

He hands her his empty mug. “Be a dear and fetch me some more,” he deadpans. 

“I literally just sat down,” she mutters, but she gets up and meanders back into the kitchen anyway.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as she pours his coffee, yawning into her sleeve three times before the mug is full. He rolls his eyes.

“You can go, you know.” She turns at the sound of his voice, quirking one eyebrow. “You don’t have to stay here. I can do it by myself.”

She holds his mug with two hands to keep it steady. “What if you fall asleep?” she asks, placing it in front of him before slumping into her chair. She kicks her feet up on the desk, which he would normally find gross, but he allows it.

“I don’t ‘fall asleep,’” he says. “I have self control. I merely choose to power down.”

Monica narrows her eyes. “Sounds very AI of you.”

He whips his head towards her. “Don’t ever fucking say anything like that to me ever again.”

She laughs, harder than he’s ever heard her laugh before. Not that they’ve spent more than a cumulative seven hours together, six of which have taken place tonight.

Six fucking hours they’ve been here, him coding and her lighting cigarettes that dangle from his mouth. As unhelpful as she is, she’s been...pretty helpful.

“I’m not leaving,” she says after a long silence. He can see her staring at him out of the corner of his eye, as if he’s supposed to say something in response.

“Okay,” he finally says, but not because she wants him to.

_ \--- _

After they’ve moved past the whole “I like you” thing, which Gilfoyle still maintains was an exhaustion-induced slip-up, things go relatively back to normal.

Relatively.

He sees her more often now that she’s their newly minted CFO, but she has her own office sequestered from the rest of them, so he still sees her less than he sees, say, Dinesh. That’s a big fucking disappointment, not because he wants to see Monica, but because he’d rather see anybody other than Dinesh.

He might like to see Monica, though, every once in a while. She’s alright, as far as work people go, and compared to all the other brain-dead, carpal tunnel-ridden sheep with their cheeto dust fingers and jizz-stained sweatpants, she’s practically a genius.

But most of the time she’s already in her office by the time he shows up, and if he’s lucky, sometimes they both leave at the same time and walk to the parking garage together.

Not that he wants that. Or doesn’t want it. He could give or take his daily interactions with Monica.

Like the ones they have at the Hacker Hostile when she drops by, usually sharing no more than a smile and a nod between them (smile from Monica, nod from Gilfoyle). It’s fine. Better than talking to Dinesh or listening to Jared talk about bird AIDS or whatever.

He wakes up one morning and she’s already there, drumming her nails on the kitchen counter.

“Hey,” she says, smiling when she sees him.

“What are you doing here?” He crosses her on his way to the fridge, ignoring her eye roll at his bluntness.

“Waiting for Richard. We have a meeting with an investor. We were supposed to leave…” she checks her watch, “...ten minutes ago.”

“It’s seven A.M.,” he says. “And Saturday.” He takes a swig of orange juice straight from the carton. She wrinkles her nose.

“It’s with this guy who doesn’t believe in Western calendars or something,” she explains. “Saturday is his Tuesday.”

“While I respect his recognition that calendars are meaningless tools, he sounds like a jackass.”

Monica nods. “A very rich one.”

He holds out the carton as an offering. “Want any?”

She shakes her head. “Gross.”

“Good. Because it’s mine, and I’m not sharing.”

She laughs. “You’re an asshole.”

_ You like me _ , he doesn’t say, because she’s already made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t. At least, not enough to say it back.

He watches in silence as she fiddles with her phone, tapping her feet on the hard linoleum. She’s wearing tan heels, which is weird since she usually wears black, and it’s even weirder that Gilfoyle just  _ knows _ that. She has a thin strand of hair stuck to her cheek, which he isn’t going to fix for her because he’s not Jared, okay? He has boundaries. And she’s worrying her lip between her teeth as she checks the time again, leaving it a little red and swollen-

And yes, maybe he’s a little into Monica. So what.

Finally, after maybe a decade of uncomfortable staring, Richard emerges from somewhere in the house. 

“Finally,” Monica says, grabbing her bag. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Richard fidgets. “I was in the bathroom-”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Gilfoyle says. “The lady is waiting.”

Monica smiles as she steers Richard out the door. “Thank you, Gilf.” 

“You guys are fucked,” he calls out. “It’s probably already midnight by that guy’s standards. Quit while you’re still ahead.”

She shakes her head as she leaves. “Fuck you, Gilf.”

He does  _ not  _ smile to himself once she’s gone.

\---

“No no no no no no, Gilfoyle, NO! NO! Fuck! Fuck you, Gilfoyle!”

Gilfoyle smirks as he crosses the finish line, tossing his controller to the side as Dinesh finishes in third.

“Fuck you!” he screeches once more.

Beerio Kart had been Dinesh’s game that he introduced to the group, but Gilfoyle has easily taken his place as the best player. The rules to Beerio Kart, whose name is self-explanatory, are simple:

  1. You must finish your drink before you finish the race.
  2. You cannot drink and drive.



Strategies range from Gilfoyle pounding an entire beer before even pressing “Go,” to Richard taking smaller drinks in between laps, to Jared getting too drunk to finish the race before he’s even had half his beer. Needless to say, Gilfoyle’s competition isn’t steep.

Well, except for-

“Bow down, gentlemen.”

“ _ Ahem. _ ”

“And Monica.”

The approving smile that she gives him is...more than a little gratifying.

“I’m not bowing down to anyone,” she says. “We’re tied.”

Infuriatingly, she is right. While it had taken her a few rounds to get the hang of things (“I haven’t played Mario Kart since I was a virgin”), she had quickly surpassed the other guys and is now tied with Gilfoyle at two wins each. 

He tried to rationalize it in his mind by claiming that the others are just lightweights, and while they are, he knows her winning streak has nothing to do with them and more to do with the fact that  _ Monica is ruthless _ .

Which he is trying not to think about.

“Oooh, did I hear someone say tie-breaker round?” says Jared, who had dropped out of the game two beers in.

“No,” says Gilfoyle. “Clearly nobody said that.”

“What’s wrong, Gilfoyle? Afraid you’re gonna lose to a girl?” Dinesh taunts. 

“Dinesh, you did lose to a girl,” says Richard. “Five times.”

“I could have beat her if  _ somebody  _ had let me be Yoshi.” And as he and Richard start to duke it out over who gets to be fuckin’ Yoshi, Gilfoyle sighs.

“Fine. Tie-breaker round.” 

Monica smirks as Jared fetches them two more beers, settling in next to Gilfoyle until they’re almost shoulder-to-shoulder. “Nervous?”

“No,” he says, which is mostly true. He’s not nervous about the game, at least. Monica’s breath on his neck, stale and warm, is a different story. She looser like this, alcohol stripping her of her usual composure, and she seems to have no qualms about pressing herself closer to him on the couch.

He preps himself to chug as the countdown begins while Monica clutches her controller. He tries to clear his mind and think about absolutely anything other than her bare thigh pressed against his knee. 

3…

2…

1…

GO!

Monica takes off as he tips his head back and drinks. He’s feeling pretty confident in himself until he’s halfway done, which is when Monica leans over, puts her lips to his ear and whispers, “You might win the race, but I’m still gonna come first.”

And he chokes. Literally, he chokes on his beer, sputtering and coughing into his sleeve as she races forward.

“What just happened?” Dinesh asks. “What did she say to you?”

“Shut up!” Monica and Gilfoyle say in unison. He knows he might be fucked now - she’s already more than half a lap ahead of him - but he downs the rest of his drink anyway and hits the gas, because only a pussy loses due to a motherfucking goddamn double entendre.

“This is weird,” he hears Dinesh say to Richard and Jared. “They’re being weird, right?”

They are, or Monica is, reaching over occasionally with one finger to poke at his thigh. “Last one to the finish line is the other one’s slave.” He ignores her, but she presses on. “Don’t worry. You can call me master.”

“Okay, I heard that one,” Dinesh calls out. “That one was weird.”

Gilfoyle is doing fine, catching up quickly and not being weird at all, and when Monica sets down her controller to drink, that’s his opportunity to find a shortcut and take back what’s his.

Except Monica is wrapping her long fingers around the neck of the bottle, tilting her head back and wrapping her mouth around the lip of the bottle at an ungodly slow pace, and as he watches her throat as she swallows, he realizes two things.

  1. His car hasn’t moved an inch.
  2. She’s fucking doing this _on purpose_.



“Gilfoyle, fucking GO.” Richard snaps him out of it, but it’s too late. 

When Monica crosses the finish line, no one is surprised, although Dinesh does bow down to her like a shithead. He is the one to start the “Gilfoyle is a loser” chant, but Monica drunkenly joins in after him. 

Gilfoyle all but throws his controller onto the coffee table, flipping them a double bird behind his back as he retreats to the kitchen. He hears Monica laugh and keeps walking.

“You’re a real bitch,” he tells her later when it’s just the two of them, sitting at the table with a bottle of scotch between them. 

“I’m sorry, I think what you mean to say is that I made you  _ my  _ bitch.” She smirks into her glass.

“You know what I mean,” he says without a hint of playfulness. “You and your dirty tactics.” Dirty is one word for it.

“Oh, that?” she says, and he’s starting to get kinda pissed with this playing dumb bullshit. “Come on, you know you like it.”

He doesn’t say anything, just swallows down the rest of his glass. Monica’s eyes go wide.

“You actually like it, don’t you?” she says, and he realizes too late that she maybe wasn’t playing dumb.

“I, uh. It’s,” he sputters. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Gilfoyle,” she says softly.

“It’s nothing.” He avoids eye contact and puts the cap back on the bottle, readying himself to escape this situation.

“Gilfoyle-”

“I would appreciate it if neither of us spoke of this again.”

“ _ Gilfoyle _ ,” she says firmly, and he stops. “Come here.”

“Why?” He has no desire to talk or smooth things over or whatever it is she’s looking for-

“Come  _ here _ ,” she commands, and  _ holy shit _ , that works. He puts down the bottle and stands so that his legs are almost touching hers. She quirks a finger in a “come hither” motion. “Get down.”

“What?”

“Do it.”

He lowers himself to his knees shakily, feeling delirious and a little dizzy. He looks up at her from down on his knees and says, breathless, “This is humiliating.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” she snaps, and he swallows.

She curls a hand around his chin, tight, but not painful. She leans in close. “Is this okay?” she asks, firmly but kindly. Slowly, he nods, his mouth too dry to answer.

“Good,” she says and grips him harder. “This is how I like you.”

She slides both hands into his hair, gripping at the roots and tugging back gently, testing the waters. When he relaxes into her grasp, she jerks his head back.  _ Hard _ .

He moans involuntarily, and she loosens her fists, massaging his head with her fingertips instead. 

“You fucking love it,” she says, awestruck and delighted. “Don’t you?” 

“Yes,” he whispers, leaning his head into her palm.

“What was that?” She pulls him up straight.

“Yes,” he says, louder. He can feel himself growing harder, straining against the front of his jeans. Monica seems to notice too, glancing down and quirking her lip in a smirk.

“I can tell.”

She runs her thumbs down the length of his cheeks, rubbing one over his bottom lip. He is quivering, he knows, his lips and his knees and his hands, which have been folded behind his back this entire time without him being conscious of it. Like he’s a natural.

She prods at his slightly parted lips more insistently, and he gets the idea. He sucks her thumb into his mouth, stroking up and down with the tip of his tongue and hollowing his cheeks around it. She sighs sweetly, scratching her nails lightly through his beard, down his neck, all the way to his chest. He feels dirty and hungry and degraded in all the right ways, and he wants so much more, would take anything she gave him and say thank you, he’d lick her boots if she asked-

She withdraws her thumb from his mouth and her hand from his chest. She stands abruptly, straightening her skirt and blouse, and he has to physically suppress the whine that wants to escape.

“You can stand,” she says, and even though he doesn’t want to, would much rather stay there on his knees below her, he complies.

She straightens him out too, combing his hair back into his face. He feels breathless still, and he’s still half-hard from the minimal contact.

He stares into her eyes, mischievous and wild, maybe even a little giddy. He wants to kiss her or hold her, or do something equally stupid, but he just stares at her until she exhales a breath that seems to carry the same amount of weight that he feels. It feels good to think that they might be on similar levels here. 

She takes a step back, grabs her purse from the table, and leans in to whisper in his ear. 

“See you tomorrow.”

\---

He would say he has no idea how he ended up here, but he knows exactly how he ended up here. It took no more than a particularly pointed look and a small flick of the wrist to get him in her office in the first place, and when she snapped her fingers and told him “under the desk,” it was like he had no choice at all.

He’s a common whore, but he has his tongue on her clit and her nails scratching through his hair, so it’s not like he’s gonna complain about it.

She’s covering her moans pretty well, still typing at her desk with the hand that’s not currently tugging on his hair, but her face is flushed and her breath catches as he runs his tongue up her dripping pussy to the tip of her clit.

“Fuck,” she breathes out, barely audible, and he huffs a laugh against her thigh. She yanks his head away. “Shut up.” And he does.

He nuzzles back in, nose pressed against dark curls while his tongue laps at her hole. She’s soaking wet, dripping down his chin, and she tastes  _ so fucking good. _ He would say it out loud, but he knows it’ll only earn him another pull of the hair or a “Shut the fuck up.”

Now that he thinks about it, neither of those sound like bad options.

“You taste so good,” he groans, and she scratches behind his ear.

“Yeah,” she coos. “You like eating me out, don’t you? You  _ slut. _ ” And _ oh, that’s good too. _

He sucks on her clit, drawing deeper, sharper breaths out of her, watching from below her desk as her chest rises and her hand clenches the edge of her desk. She catches him watching her and looks down at him almost affectionately, grabbing his head in both of her hands to push his hair out of his eyes.

He lifts one hand to thumb at her folds, to take two fingers and push them deep inside her, but she slaps him away. “No hands.”

His cock strains against his zipper at her cold, sharp, authoritarian tone. He’s been hard as a rock since the moment he knelt down under this desk and Monica revealed her bare pussy underneath her pencil skirt, and he’s been close to the edge since the moment he tasted it. He presses the heel of his hand against the bulge in his jeans and curls the other around her thigh, sliding up the soft skin and landing on the curve of her ass, massaging as much of it as he can. She whines, a soft little “ohh,” and it makes him physically shiver. 

He doubles down, flicking his tongue against her clit while his chin rubs against her pussy. If the beard is uncomfortable for her, she doesn’t say anything, just sighs prettily and presses his head in closer. He’s pretty sure she’s close - he knows women, and if the gasping and panting and quivering knees are any indication, they’re about thirty seconds away from a moaning-shaking-toe-curling-face-soaking orgasm.

And then there’s a knock at the door.

Gilfoyle tenses up as Monica leans back in her chair with a “Come in!” He jolts away from her, but she clenches her thighs around his head before he can escape. He sighs, somehow both exasperated and leaking cum out of his dick at the same time.

“Hey,” says the person at the door, who happens to be goddamn fucking Richard Hendricks. If Gilfoyle didn’t already hate him and his complete lack of timing, this would really seal the deal.

“Richard, I’m really busy, can it wait?” Monica says, so convincingly blasé for someone who has a whole person between her legs. She still has one hand on the back of his head, gently nudging him forward.

Oh.

Slowly, he begins to lick. Small and soft, quiet so Richard won’t hear, swallowing his own moans in his throat as he glides his tongue over her soft, wet, sweet lips. He has no idea what they’re talking about above him, too focused on his task of eating Monica’s pussy like a goddamn meal, but knowing that Richard is here and has no idea sends a tremor straight down to his cock. He’s grateful that Monica insisted on getting new desks that have backs on them, and  _ holy shit, is this why Monica insisted on getting new desks with backs on them? _

Monica’s got her poker face on, but he knows her resolve is slipping. Richard is too much of a dumbass to notice that she’s red-faced and practically twitching or that her voice is especially strained when she says, “Richard, can you come back in like twenty minutes?” He slips out the door and closes it with a click, but Gilfoyle waits for Monica’s permission to continue.

“Come on,” she says, and he thrusts two fingers inside her pussy before he can even consider the consequences, curling up against her while he sucks hungrily on her clit. “Fuuuuuck,” she breathes, apparently too distracted to punish him for his transgression. He’s almost disappointed.

“Gilfoyle, fucking  _ fuck me _ ,” she demands, and he is more than happy to oblige.

He fucks her relentlessly, and he can feel her tighten around his knuckles as she whimpers and tightens her grip on his hair. He curls his fingers up against her g-spot and sucks hard on her clit, one, two, three times, and then it’s over. She whines and digs her nails into his scalp and her pussy fucking spasms around his fingers, and when he imagines the same thing happening around his  _ cock,  _ he has to use the force of sheer will to keep from exploding in his pants.

She holds him close to her, his face pressed flush against her pussy as she presses one stilettoed heel against his back, and it hurts a little, but it’s also _good_. He keeps licking her through it, until she’s done clenching and panting, until she grows so sensitive that she has to pull him away by his hair and close her legs to keep him away. 

His mouth and chin are soaked, and he knows he must look trashed, and probably kind of disgusting, but he can’t bring himself to care. He looks up at her from where he rests down on his knees, watching her tug her skirt over her pretty, red, swollen cunt, and he’s starting to worry his dick is broken because there’s no way he hasn’t come already.

She waves him up towards her. “Come here.”

He scrambles to his feet, so close they’re nose-to-nose. She presses him against the desk, her manicured hand around his upper thigh and lips against his ear. “What do you want?” she whispers. He swallows. She digs her nails in, and he gasps. “I said. What do you want?”

He breathes out a little shakily. She runs the tip of her tongue over the shell of his ear. “I want you to touch me,” he chokes out.

She sucks on his earlobe, releasing it with a pop. “Where?” she asks, her hand running dangerously close to his inner thigh, tracing along the divot where his leg meets his pelvis.

“You know where,” he says, frustrated. She bites his ear hard. He moans, pain and pleasure intertwined.

“I want you to touch my cock,” he says, so desperate and whorish.

“And what do you say?” she asks, like he hasn’t already gotten on his knees and begged for her, like he isn’t at her complete mercy already, like his dick isn’t twitching just from being inches away from her hand.

“Please. Please touch my cock.”

And with that, she slips her hand into his jeans, under his boxers to grip his cock in her long, perfect fingers. He feels weak in the knees, slumping against the desk as she jerks his dick expertly, almost dismissively. She gives it a cursory glance every once in a while to swipe her thumb over his leaking cockhead, but mostly she focuses on his face, his blown pupils and trembling lips, almost as if they’re begging for something he’s too afraid to ask for. She pushes his shirt up with her free hand.

“Come for me,” she says, then kisses him.

He comes all over his stomach.

She strokes him through it, petting his hair almost sweetly until he’s done spasming and dribbling cum everywhere. She presses her forehead to his, letting him slump down further onto the desk as his cock softens.

She pulls back and throws a tissue at him.

“Clean yourself up.”

He does, wiping down his stomach and his face and his fingers, still kind of sticky from being inside her. His hair is damp and his shirt rumpled, and he does his best to make it look like normal Gilfoyle messiness instead of “just fucked Monica” messiness. Monica tucks her blouse more firmly into her skirt, but altogether she looks like normal, sexy, gorgeous Monica. Hell, if anyone walked in here right now and just saw her, they’d hardly be able to tell anything happened.

They’d be able to smell it, though. Gilfoyle is certain of that. Richard probably would have smelled it too, if he knew what sex smelled like.

Monica settles back in her chair with Gilfoyle still standing over her. “Well,” she says, flustered and less confident than before. “Back to work, I guess.”

“Yes. Back to work,” he deadpans, masking his nervousness. All the times he imagined fucking Monica, he never considered what would happen next.

An errant curl falls in her face, and before he can stop himself, he reaches out to tuck it behind her ear. She grabs his hand before he can pull back.

It’s unclear which one of them makes the move, if she pulls him in towards her or if he just gravitates there naturally, but in the next moment he is kissing her soundly and firmly, still holding her head tenderly with her hand placed over his.

They stay like that for a while, and when they finally pull away, it is reluctantly.

“I, um,” she starts to say.

“I should go back out there,” he interjects, saving her from having to say anything. “Before anyone else comes in.”

“Yeah,” she chuckles, “I don’t want Jared to have to walk in on this. Or, god forbid, Dinesh.”

He shudders at the thought, and she laughs. She does have a nice laugh, which is not something he has ever thought about another human being.

He shows himself to the door, but not before a parting glance and what could almost be classified as a smile. Monica gives him a little wave, and he’s out.

He makes his way back to his desk, shaking it all out of his system. Richard passes him on his way, doing a swift double take when he tracks Gilfoyle’s path.

“Gilfoyle, were you just in...?” he begins to ask.

“No,” Gilfoyle says. He doesn’t need to know.

Although it will be fucking hilarious to tell him about later.

**Author's Note:**

> i am ludicrousmode on tumblr!


End file.
